
PROF. MARCUS B LA KEY ALLMOND. 



ESTELLE 



AN IDYL OF OLD VIRGINIA 



MARCUS BLAKEY ALLMOND, A.M., LL.D. 
\\ 

Maga3;ine Medalist, University of Virginia; Head-master University 

School, Louisville; formerly Professor Ancient Languages, 

Male High School ; Author "Fairfax, My Lord," 

"Outlines of Latin Syntax," etc. 




LOUISVILLE KY 

JOHN P MORTON & COMPANY 

1896 



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Copyright, i8g6, bj> M. 13. ^/l/lniofid. 
Gift 
Author 

9 Mr '08 



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Dedicated to Mj> Wife, 

GARY mEADE o^LLMOhlD, 

And 

{MY CHILDREN, 

IVbose Welfare is " Part and ParceT' of 
My Every Thought- 



FROM THE LATE PRESIDENT OF 
YALE COLLEGE. 

Prof. Marcus B. Allmond: 

(My Dear Sir : Some one was so kind as to send 
me by post a poem by yourself, entitled ''Estelle." 
Happening to have an hour to spare I at once took 
it up, and was so interested in it as to read it through 
at a sitting. I take the liberty to congratulate you 
as the author of a very lovely idyll, sweet in its 
spirit, lovely in its pictures, and admirably felicitous 
in its diction. What can I say more, and I could 
not say less, if I should say any thing. 
Most sincerely yours, 

N. PORTER. 
New Haven, Conn., June 13, 1884. 



PREFACE 

SOME years since, when the author was Professor of 
Ancient Languages in the Male High School, he 
urged upon the young men of his classes, as an excellent 
exercise in the acquisition of facility in English expression, 
a carefully written as well as a painstaking and exact oral 
translation of the thoughts of the great authors they were 
reading. He had followed such a course himself at school 
and at the University of Virginia, and to prove to his pupils 
that even one without natural gifts might, by such a 
practice, make some headway in expression, he sat down 
one Saturday morning, and before the day was over he had 
finished the most of "Estelle." It embodies, it is true, in 
the main, experiences had by the author amid the uplands 
of the Rappahannock, close under the Blue Ridge, in Old 
Virginia, where at his cousin's home, "Estelle," now the 
author's wife, was teaching. In some points, however, the 
story is purely imaginative. It is hardly necessary to tell 
any one who knows the author that the author is no artist. 

(9) 



1 



Preface 



The art of mixing and handling paints is an enormous 
mystery to him. And so pronounced are his views against 
the nefarious liquor trafl&c that it is equally unnecessary to 
state that "his breath with wine was" never ''strong" at 
the banquet herein described, or anywhere else, or to 
declare that he never sang the ''Carpe Diem" song. Nor 
did Mr. William Washington Meade (a nephew of the 
celebrated Bishop and a grandson of Col. Richard Kidder 
Meade, of Washington's staff), the father of the author's 
wife — Virginia Gary Meade — die for many years after 
" Estelle " was written. 

The popularity of the little volume was a genuine 
surprise to the author, and, when the first edition was 
exhausted, it was some time before he could make up his 
mind to publish a second edition. But the thousand copies 
of the second edition have been exhausted long since — 
three or four years since — and the demand has seemed 
so urgent from time to time, that the author is no longer 
able to resist a third edition, especially as orders have been 
received from Iowa to California, and from Texas to 
Massachusetts, and even far-away Germany, within a com- 
paratively short time, showing that the little book has 
touched a cord that vibrates in the universal heart. 

(lO) 



Preface 



In the hope that it may bear a blessing to some human 
soul, that it may shed a bit of sunshine along the path- 
way of some shadowed life, that it may render pleasurable 
some hour that otherwise might have been a weary one, 
that it may bring some heart into closer and sweeter unison 
with another heart, that it may augment good fellowship 
and, while more widely diffusing the amenities of life, 
contribute yet more to the elevation of man and the glory 
of God, the author commits it for a third time to a 
generous public. The kind letters it has brought him, the 
hearty friendships it has made him, the blessed good-will it 
has won for him in hearts he never knew, have been to 
him a source of infinite and abiding pleasure he may not 
rashly reckon. And when life and its duties are over and 
death and its mysteries are at hand, it will be one consoling 
thought that, should all his other efforts at well-doing fail, 
this one at least has had some measure of success. 

In due appreciation of this fact the little volume appears 
in far handsomer guise than ever before. To the publishers, 
whose taste in typography is so well known, the author 
here makes due acknowledgment, and there are others, also, 
who have considerately assisted him in the habiliment of 
the poem, to whom he would here return merited thanks, 

(II) 



Preface 



were he allowed by them to do so. They must take the 
wish for the deed. In conclusion, to one and all into whose 
hands this little book may come the author bids a hearty God- 
speed in all that is good and true and generous and 
brave — in all that makes life worth the living and the 
Far-Beyond an assured and beautiful hope. 

Louisville, Ky., December i, 1806. 



(12) 



I 



ESTELLE 



N that fair land of light and love, 

Where heroes sleep entombed in throngs, 
Where laughing skies are blue above 

And Nature sings her sweetest songs — 
In that dear land we love and hold 

The saintliest of the sisterhood. 
The State of States, whose arms enfold 

Yet hosts on hosts of great and good, 
Whose virgin soil bears virgin name, 

Whose best of people wear the grace 
Of heirship in their fathers' fame 

With ease that marks a kindred race, 
Whose men love honor as their soul. 

And women are Cornelias all, 
(13) 




Photo by W. H. Malone 

"A sudden thought now seized on Ned 

To weave for her a diadem." 

(Page 22) 



Estelk 

Who count their jewels by the roll 

Of sons who heed their country's call ; — 
Close nestling under mountains blue 

A streamlet rises in a glen 
And makes its way to broader view 

Amid the busier haunts of men; 
But ere it leaves its mountain home 

It laughs along fair sloping hills 
And catches with its whiter foam 

The ripples of unnumbered rills ; 
It passes houses, one by one, 

That, nestling 'mid their groves of trees. 
Escape the noon-heat of the sun 

When plays the fitful summer breeze ; 
It passes scenes that would delight 

The painter's or the poet's eye — 
That breathe anew by day, by night. 

The glories of an Arcady. 
Here in the month of leafy June, 

When roses were in height of pride, 
(14) 



Estdle 

And Morning met sweet Afternoon 
And kissed her by the water's side, 

The farmer's daughter sits beneath 
The freshness of the maple's shade, 

While wild flowers of her native heath 
The balmy airs with fragrance lade. 

She caught the lull of noontide hour 

And almost drowsed beside the fell ; 
The bee had left the rifled flower. 

The sheep had ceased to ring his bell ; 
The browsing kine forgot to graze 

And stood beneath the trees in dream, 
While sunlight flashed its mellow rays 

Upon the bosom of the stream. 

The book beside her lay half-shut, 
She floated off on magic seas : 
** He comes," she dreams, " he comes ; but, but- 
Her hair is fingered by the breeze, 
(15) 



Estelle 

Ah, well ! those lashes, they are long 

And cast their shadows o'er the blue 
That now lies hidden (am I wrong?) 

Beneath those lids, just out of view ; 
And, oh ! those cheeks, I know a rose 

Has stolen from its parent-stem 
And left the track of tiny toes 

In dimples upon each of them; 

And lips. Carnation's own they seem — 

Sweet, dainty lips, the home of bliss - 
Such lips as Fancy, in sweet dream. 

Would hover round, yet fear to kiss ; 
So pure, they seem for angel-words 

The try sting-place and holy shrine, 
When with the twitter, as of birds, 

In nuptial joy they intertwine ; 
And, oh ! that chin so neatly turned, 

A Grecian artist, yes, the best. 
With silent envy would have burned 

To see the skill it did attest ; 

(i6) 



Estelle 

And brow! it rose a wreath of white 

That bordered wide a wealth of tress 
That now in sunny beauty light 

Fell in fair folds upon her dress. 
The wanton breeze with lustful glow 

Now freshened as it stroked her hair. 
And, as it kissed her brow of snow, 

Declared she was surpassing fair. 

She dreamed she saw him on the hill ; 

She saw him moving down the path ; 
She saw him cross the little rill ; 

What eyes she dreams her lover hath ! 
How stately is his form, and fair ! 

How strong his step and sure of place ! 
How wavy his Hyperion hair, 

And what an open, manly face ! 
But books will often make us dream, 

And June will bring fair fancies up 
And tinge them with the mellow gleam 

Of daffodil or buttercup. 
(17) 



Estelle 



N TOW fanner Creal, a neighbor friend, 
^ ^ While horses to the barn were gone, 
Thought it quite well to go (not send) 

And see how farmer Rout came on. 
Just at his neighbor's gate he met, 

A full fourth-mile from house away, 
A youth quite fair of mould, who yet 

Bore signs of traveling far that day. 
Clad in a garb of sober sense, 

He seemed to farmer Creal a man 
He might address without pretense 

Or taking length of time to scan. 
"Good-morning!" said the farmer then; 
** Good-morning ! " said the passer-by. 
"Nice day!" the farmer said again; 
"Yes, sir," the youth made quick reply, 
And added, "Can you tell me, sir. 

Where farmer Creal lives hereabout? 

(18) 



Estelle 

Or, if he is not living here, 

Where lives — let's see — old farmer Rout?" 
**My name is Creal ; and yonder — see! 

Lives my old friend, good farmer Rout ; 
ril take you by his house with me. 

If you will only turn about." 
Then through the gate and down the hill 

They kept the way that led below, 
And chatting, now they cross the rill 

And reach the spot where maples grow. 
And here, oh stay ! ye gods above. 

An Aphrodite, armed in might, 
A sunny snare of sunny Love, 

Breaks in full power upon the sight. 
** Estelle 's asleep!" the farmer says. 

And called her: '* Estelle, hey, awake!" 
Oh ! farmers have such sober ways — 

His ringing words the sweet spell break. 
But farmers are the sturdy men 

That build the nation strong and true, 
(19) 



Estelle 

That sink foundations in the fen 
On which we round up to the blue 

The house that winds and rains harm not, 
The superstructure that must stand 

When you and I are both forgot, 

And children's children own the land. 



ly TOW days went by, as days will do, 

■*■ ^ And oft they met, as young folks will. 

When air is sweet and skies are blue 

And green grass creeps along the hill. 
'Twas afternoon — just such a one 

As June will give beneath the skies 
Where Blue Ridge welcomes morning sun 

With her fair, laughing, winsome eyes. 
They strolled — Estelle and Ned Holway — 

Along the farm-road up the hill 
To where the forest-shadows lay 

In hushed repose, divinely still. 

(20) 



Estelle 

He talked in low and quiet wise 

Of men and matters manifold, 
And sighed to think the very skies 

Grow brighter if but tinged with gold. 
He told the story of his life — 

Of all he dreamed that he would be : 
"I've battled there ('twas knife to knife) 

To win an honest victory. 
But gold, eternal gold ! the cry 

Fills all the world and stays the hand 
Of Art, who shrinks back with a sigh 

That greed of gain engulfs the land : 
But Art is Art — a thing divine — 

I love her with my very soul ; 
I'll not forsake her holy shrine 

Till Mammon pay her ample dole." 

They now had reached a charming spot. 
Where shade locked hands with shade in glee, 

The artist for a while forgot 
The subject of his colloquy. 

(21) 



1 




* * * She leaned upon his arm 

And walked on slowly back toward home. 



Photo by W. H. Malone. 



( Page 28) 



Estelle 

And now upon a great, wild rock. 

Extending each way many feet. 
He piled stone-block upon stone-block 

Until it grew to be a seat 
A very queen might love to hold. 

Beneath the overshadowing trees, 
And wrapped in vine-leaves crimson-gold. 

Or green as hills by Southern seas. 
A honeysuckle wild and red 

Was stretching welcoming hands to them. 
A sudden thought now seized on Ned 

To weave for her a diadem. 
The violet with blue eyes smiled 

From hiding-place beneath the ledge, 
And buttercups were growing wild 

Beyond the sweeping forest's edge. 
Now, as he wove, he sprang again 

The subject of an artist's love — 
How field and forest, grove and glen. 

And laughing rills and skies above, 

(22) 



Estelle 

And all things whisper songs to him, 

And all things seem to woo his heart 
To quaff the cup whose mantling brim 

Speaks loyalty to higher art : 
"Men's worlds are what they make them — all- 

Or bright or dark or sweet or sad. 
Whose heart lets sunshine on it fall 

Or rain-clouds round it battle mad 
Has joy or grief as he may choose — 

Has wealth no CrcEsus ever knew 
Or Poverty that would refuse 

To see the kindness men may do. 
For my part I am sworn to seek 

The beauty of God's master-hand ; 
My art, my tongue, my all shall speak 

The glories of my native land." 
And thus he prattled, while a breeze 

Began to stir on hidden wings ; 
It hummed a low song in the trees 

And toyed with her bonnet-strings. 
(23) 



Estelle 



THE SONG OF THE BREEZE. 

O, sweet sun-bonnet, lined with pink! 

When June wakes fancies in a youth, 
The queenliest bonnet thou, I think, 

That ever circled face of Truth. 

O, sweet sun-bonnet, lined with pink! 

O, sweet, fair face just peeping out! 
Your dual power would woo, I think. 

And win a heart's last halting doubt. 

O, sweet sun-bonnet, lined with pink! 

In whose fair fashion is no art, 
But artless art, which is, I think. 

The art of arts to win a heart. 

O, sweet sun-bonnet, lined with pink! 

Thou art so witching in thy grace. 
My rapt soul lingers lang'rous o'er 

The rose-tints on her lily-face. 

Anon she threw it from her brow 
And almost smiled as, looking down. 

She saw the artist busy now 
At work upon her floral crown. 
(24) 



4 



Estelle 

"He weaves most well," she thought, "but oh! 

He knows not what he 's weaving there. 
Two lives — " and then she started so 

Her thought was cleft like brittle ware. 
Again she looked upon the crown. 

Again the thought would come, but she 
Would struggle so to keep it down — 
"It might, it might be destiny." 
And he wove on and talked of art. 

And talked of dreams (we all dream them) , 
And knew not that he wove his heart 

Into his lady's diadem. 



/^^H ! summer speeds on fairy wings, 

^^ When youth with youth is leagued with Joy ; 

And Time counts not the half he brings, 

When tricked in song he plays the boy, 
And with round laugh and roguish glee 

Steals smiles from even wrinkled cheeks, 

(25) 



Estelle 

And leads a laddie's foot to be 

A truant bold in neighboring creeks ; 
But oh ! when sorrow comes between, 

When Grief reclines with pallid brow, 
That which was only yestere'en 

Seems ages to both young hearts now. 
Oh ! wide world o'er, where is the place 

That Death rules not with ruthless sway? 
That old, old friend, whose pale, pale face 

Will meet us in some unknown way. 
Good farmer Rout in God's own time 

Was called to leave his work and go ; 
His death you would not call sublime. 

His life was? You would answer, "No." 
But silent lives like his, you know. 

Are like the silent work of God, 
They teach the grain to sprout and grow. 

They lead the grass on rod by rod 
O'er fields where mother Earth lies bare. 

Rough-torn by hand of man or time; 

(26) 



Estelle 

And thus they heal the wounds those wear, 

And are more blest than if sublime. 
Now, standing at the open grave, 

The artist felt a sorrow new ; 
He could not tell what 'twas that gave 

Such sympathy as thrilled him through. 
He knew a few more days, and then 

His duty called him back to where 
He laid aside his work to gain 

A needed rest and wholesome air ; 
And yet there stirred within his heart 

A tenderness he never owned, 
When yonder form seemed reft apart 

By silent Grief that inly moaned, 
A noble Impulse rose and said — 

(Ah, well ! we '11 not repeat it here) . 
Ambition lifted up her head ; 

The Impulse shrank away in fear. 



<27) 



i 



Estelle 



A FEW days more, and then by chance 
-**• He passed the gate that led within 
To Estelle's home. The sun's last glance 

Was resting on this world of sin, 
And giving benediction sweet 

In floods of golden, glorious light. 
And streaming far away to greet 

The onward coming of the night. 
All sorrow-laden she had walked 

On down the roadway to the gate. 
They met ; before they knew they talked — 

How long we need not here relate. 
But, as she leaned upon his arm 

And walked on slowly back toward home. 
He felt his heart grow wondrous warm ; 

In some strange way his thoughts would roam 
To that point where Ambition rose 

And said, *'It can not be, and must 

(28) 



Estelle 

At once be crushed. So don't disclose 

Your weakness to her simple trust." 
Estelle was fair, exceeding fair. 

And sorrow gave her yet more grace : 
It made more golden yet her hair, 

It made more pretty yet her face ; 
And then her voice had such a charm, 

It rose and fell in cadence sweet ; 
And when his eye fell on her arm. 

He found a model quite complete. 
Thus moving on, a sudden whir 

Of wings, and then before their eyes 
A young bird fell, (was it not queer?) 

And, wounded, struggled hard to rise. 
Estelle was touched, and said, *'Poor thing, 

A cruel hand has wrought thee wrong ; 
A bird that bears a broken wing 

Can never sing its sweetest song." 
And that was all ; the artist knew 

To-morrow he must leave, if he 
(29) 



Estelle 

Would step by step rise upward through 
Temptation to art's mastery. 

TO-MORROW came, and he was gone ; 
And she — well, women can be strong. 
A dream that they have dreamt upon 

Until it works almost a wrong. 
They yet can hide away and smile, 

And none of those they chance to meet 
Can ever know how they beguile 

Their hearts to play such fair deceit. 

'T^HE artist stood within his room 

*- And worked at easel long and stout. 
From morning's light to evening's gloom 

Fair ladies went within, without. 
And one there was who often came 

And watched the paintings as they grew; 
And with her was a stately dame 
Whose diamonds flashed upon the view. 
(30) 



I 



Estelle 

There was no doubt but wealth was theirs ; 

There was no further doubt but they 
Were not so wrapped in art affairs 

That oft their eyes would stray away 
To where the artist, deep in thought, 

Was linking dream to dream so fair 
That all about him, as he wrought. 

He fancied was ambrosial air. 
In time he met with them and grew 

To know they were sweet Fashion's own, 
Whose art levees a parvenu 

Regarded as quite near the throne. 
Ambition stirred anew within 

His heart of hearts, as now he read 
The work he need not to begin. 

If he would yield but to be led. 
The way was plain, the sailing clear. 

The world would then all honor give ; 
With talent, wealth, and fashion near. 

He well might think it sweet to live. 
(31) 



n 



Estelle 

He looked his gallery round, and saw 

*Twas here an eye, 'twas there a hand. 
That seemed in some strange way to draw 

His thoughts unto another land, 
And mountains blue and sunny skies, 

And golden locks in wavy fold. 
And all the depth of blue in eyes. 

And memories of the days of old. 

'Twas cruel to his name to dream 

Of turning from this chance away. 
As Fashion's favorites round did stream. 

When night had intercepted day, 
He felt a very lord of men, 

A monarch of a little world ; 
And round and round, again, again. 

In mazy dance his glad heart whirled. 
The blazing diamonds sparkled bright. 

The slippered feet in kid were clad, 
And surely never revel-wight 

A more enlisted partner had. 
(32) 



Estelle 

She threw her soul into the dance. 

And seemed enkindled with the throng, 
As foot to foot and glance to glance 

Their airy figures flashed along. 
But, O ! there was, I can not tell, 

A little something wanting yet 
To win him, and to win him well. 

So well that he must needs forget. 

No ties now bound him to that lass, 

That little country-maiden there ; 
He simply met her as you pass 

A rose-bush flowering in the air ; 
You stop and view the roses red, 

You catch the perfume with your breath. 
And then you stride on straight ahead 

And care not how they meet their death. 
This world is all a thing of show, 

And who would ride upon the crest 
Must rate these finer feelings low, 

And not be hampered or distrest. 

(33) 



m 



Estelle 

If birds with broken wings should fall 

Before his feet with plaintive look, 
He casts them from the way, that's all ; 

They'll find some little, hidden nook. 
Thus did Ambition lure his soul 

And find a reason for each act : 
We go to pieces on the shoal 

In fleeing from the cataract. 

OH ! such is life ; and ere we know 
'Tis presto! and a change is made, 
And what was this a while ago, 

Is that before it can be said. 
And so, within that distant glen 

Beneath the mountain's arching brow. 
Far from the busy haunts of men. 

Is maiden meditative now. 
She sees the sun rise in the east, 

She sees the sun set in the west. 
She sees the Summer spread her feast, 

And Autumn come a welcome guest. 

(34) 



m 



Estelle 

Her daily round of duties all — 

Her books, her walks, her dreams by night 
Are shadowed by an inward pall 

Whose edges gleam with golden light ; 
For, though the face of Hope was hid, 

Faith, loving maid that knows no guile, 
In dreamless innocency bid 

Her heart play with a wanton wile. 
The flowers knew her kindly touch. 

The bird's poor broken wing was healed, 
The lambs all grew to love her much, 

And followed faithful round the field ; 
The trees swung out their hands in glee. 

The brooklets laughed as she passed on 
The breezes breathed in ecstacy. 

The sun rays welcomed her at morn. 
She taught the music now to stray 

In winsome grace o'er pliant strings. 
And oft she sang a roundelay 

That ran into more serious things : 

(35) 



Estelle 



HER SONG. 

Ah! hope is mine, and hope is well, 

And work will keep her young heart sweet; 

The morn shall find me down the dell, 
The night shall give me rest complete. 

Ah! hope is mine, and hope is well. 

And work will keep her young heart sweet. 

Ah! hope is mine, and hope is well. 
But clouds will linger in the sky; 

I wonder if they will not swell 
And burst in tempests by and by. 

Ah! hope is mine, and hope is well. 
But clouds will linger in the sky. 

Ah! hope is mine, and hope is well, 

And work will keep her young heart sweet. 

I do not know, I can not tell 

Which way she leads my willing feet; 

But hope is mine, and hope is well, 

And work will keep her young heart sweet. 



(36) 



Estelle 

And, suiting action then to song, 

She took her life up new again, 
And bore it like a lark along 

The by-paths of that little glen. 
As chance now opened up the way. 

She taught the children in the school. 
(How easy is a teacher's sway 

Where Love is law, and Duty, rule.) 
She grew to have exalted aim ; 

She saw within their little eyes. 
All nicely set within its frame, 

A picture of sweet Paradise ; 
And knew that each pure little heart 

Was in itself a costly gem, 
And were it nurtured quite apart 

Would stud the Master's diadem. 
But man is man's supremest foe, 

Though he should be his dearest friend. 
And thousands league for brothers' woe 

While hundreds work for better end. 

(37) 



I 



Estelle 

The Caesars of this cruel earth 

Have been the spoilers of the best 
That God's dear love has wooed to birth 

In every human being's breast. 
Man preys upon his fellow-man. 

And children in their very teens, 
While learning use of a or aUy 

Interpolate a thousand scenes 
Of Life's kaleidoscopic round 

Upon the neighbor children's soul ; 
And thus the serpent's track is bound 

By Human-life's concentric whole. 
She thought if she could lead them out 

And let the hills speak to them words 
And airs of heaven lap them 'bout 

And glad them with the songs of birds. 
And there along the brooklet's banks 

The story of the waters teach. 
She might accord herself due thanks 

For keeping them from Harm's sad reach. 
(38) 



11 



i 



Estelle 

So, often when the tasks were o'er. 

And books were laid aside that day, 
She led them gently from the door 

Across the field and forest way ; 
She taught them of the beauties sweet 

That lay on hill-side and in vale, 
That fell about their very feet 

And rose in joy to regale ; 
She told them that the human soul 

Is like a wondrous mirror made. 
And will reflect the half or whole. 

In fuller light or deeper shade. 
Of all this joyous universe. 

That speaks of beauty, truth, and God, 
And be the better or the worse 

Upon a human will's mere nod. 
If it is worn as it should be, 

And kept undimmed by sin's foul breath. 
It will reflect the harmony 

That moves through all things — even death. 

(39) 



4 



Estelle 

She led them then from self to stray, 

And begged them walk with open eyes 
And watch for flowers along the way, 

And hand in hand ascend the rise; 
She told them earth was rich and sweet. 

That God looks outward from the skies. 
If man his fellow man would greet 

With warmth of heart and loving eyes, 
Old Want would fold her hands and sleep. 

And Crime into a dwarf would shrink. 
And Sorrow's heart would cease to weep, 

And fell Despair halt on the brink. 
A great warm heart will burgeon out, 

If Faith and Charity are there. 
But greed of gain is seed of doubt. 

And doubt will nurture sin and care. 
It is not what we have, but are. 

That makes us happy here on earth. 
And up beyond or sun or star 

Our souls are reckoned as our worth. 
(40) 



Estelle 

As air pours in a tainted room 

And sweeps the pestilence away, 
And to the wan restores the bloom, 

And for the darkness gives the day, 
So Nature peeps into the heart 

And blows the bloom of roses in, 
And swings the dusky doors apart 

And sweeps away the brood of sin. 

But, oh ! the teacher as she taught 

Yet grew and grew more lovely still, 
And far the noblest work she wrought 

Was this — she schooled a perfect will. 
And though she sometimes dreamed "Perhaps," 

She smiled and said "God knoweth best." 
And while the children conned their maps, 

Her lily heart had perfect rest. 



(41) 



Estelle 



T^HE world had seized him, and he flung 

■* His ardent heart into the stream; 
He rose a meteor, that now hung 

In mid-air as the planets seem. 
His friends were scores on scores, and they 

Hung round him with a hollow glee. 
And made the midnight hour like day 

With song and dance and revelry. 
The club-rooms gleamed with golden light, 

The banquet table groaned with freight ; 
To round the hour of waning night. 

The wine-cup sat beside the plate. 
They each had sung a little song — 

They all had spoken each his speech, 
The artist's breath with wine was strong, 

As back he leaned with glass in reach. 



(42) 



n 



Estelle 



HIS SONG: CARPE DIEM. 

Brave Caecuban and Massic clear! 

Horatian strains will celebrate, 
With old Falernian, year by year, 

Your powers to intoxicate! 
But whether it be Caecuban, 

Or Massic mantling to the brim, 
Or glorious old Falernian, 

Who drinks the deepest, here's to him! 

Oh! Bacchus wears the poplar wreath. 

And Venus smiles with sweet delight: 
Come! gather now out, boys, beneath 

The stars that gem the brow of night. 
And let us sing a roundelay 

And round it up with measure trim. 
And drain the wine-cup while we may. 

Who drinks the deepest, here's to him! 

A merry song, come one, come all, 

Let Cytherea lead the dance; 
And, while the Graces are in call. 

Let's bring them forth as each may chance; 
And, while Apollo we salute, 

Amid the Muses, tricked and prim, 
(43) 



Estelle 

With glass to glass and foot to foot, 
Who drinks the deepest, here's to him! 

Ah! Time flies fast and soon is gone; 

We buried Yesterday at night. 
To-morrow will have come and flown 

Almost before it seems in sight. 
Then seize the day; let mirth flow on. 

Our chance for length of life is slim. 
Once more, before the day shall dawn, 

Who drinks the deepest, here's to him! 



The seed of -wine is seed of wrong, 

And seed of wrong will fruit in ill ; 
And, though you wait the harvest long, 

You may expect the harvest still. 
Old Nature is a kindly dame, 

And keeps her plenty on the shelf, 
But she will yet assert her claim 

In due time to protect herself. 
Outraged, she grows terrific then, 

And wreaks her vengeance manifold ; 

(44) 



Estelk 

You may not coax her to her den, 

You may not bribe her off with gold. 
Long days the fever dread had raged. 

Its ebb-tide now was setting in, 
And kind attendants all presaged 

That time and hope the fight would win. 
As in these sluggish after-hours 

He lay and languished in his bed, 
There came a little bunch of flowers 

In which were honeysuckles red. 
And violets with eyes all blue. 

And buttercups all creamy gold; 
And then there burst upon his view 

The memories of the days of old. 
There was no word to tell the tale 

Of friendship lingering through the years 
There was no plea — no storm — no gale — 

No burst of passion — flood of tears ; 
And yet his soul was through and through 

Thrilled as by hidden battery's shock; 

(45) 



Estelle 

His own sweet thoughts stormed into view, 

And smote with might the desert rock. 
And then he recognized as true 

In all the round of life's fair things 
The fairest (ah ! need I tell you ?) 

Was where the Rappahannock springs. 
And, as the days passed slowly on. 

There grew upon the canvas there, 
As bit by bit from mom to morn 

He worked to drive away dull care, 
A picture of a forest-queen, 

With crown of wild flowers on her head. 
High-throned on rocks — a living green 

With moss whose soft plush carpeted 
The tesselated floor beneath, 

Which won a deeper tinge from trees 
Whose locked arms longed to make bequeath 

Of try sting spot to love and ease. 
He caught the sun-ray's laughing light, 

And locked it in her golden hair ; 
(46) 



Estelle 

He set the lily's seal of white 

Upon her face and features fair ; 
He won the rosebud's pouting grace 

And on her arching lips it grew; 
Rose petals on her cheeks found place, 

And in her eyes were violets blue. 
And now the dawn seemed broken sweet 

In whelming freshness o'er all lands, 
As ever more and more complete 

Expression grew beneath his hands. 
It was a picture that would stay 

A very Vulcan, if not blind, 
It was a picture, I must say. 

Whose canvas was the artist's mind. 
For he was feeble many days. 

And like a very infant weak; 
His hand with effort he could raise. 

His voice almost forgot to speak. 

Then came a letter. Farmer Creal 

Thought rest among the mountains good, 

(47) 



Estelle 

"If he could teach himself to feel 

Content with pure air and plain food ; " 
And Cousin Mary (Creal's good wife) 

Must add a post-script just to say 
" You must come, Ed. Upon my life 

We'll cure you. Yours, devoted, May." 
Oh ! farmers' wives are oft so kind 

Up 'mid those dear old mountains blue, 
They'll ransack all the house to find 

Some better way of serving you. 



npWAS eventide — that holy hour 

* When calm invests the realms of air. 
And dew brings joy unto the flower 

Whose head is drooping in despair. 
The stars were in the silent sky, 

The soft light fell on hill and dale, 
The meadow brook went purling by 
The clover-blooms that filled the vale ; 
(48) 



Estelle 

The fire-flies hung above the meads 

Like ships of airy little sprites. 
And wreathed with threads of golden beads 

The dark hair of this queen of nights. 
Afar, anear, there was a hush 

Unbroken, save at intervals 
When nightingales upon the bush 

Burst into lovely madrigals. 
The artist at the window-side 

Reclined upon the settee's length, 
Looked out upon the prospect wide 

And drank with every breath new strength. 
The mountains in the distance now 

Were growing brighter as there rose 
The moon in silence o'er their brow 

And smiled upon the earth's repose. 
** To-morrow," queried he, **and then? 

Ah ! then the Rubicon is passed ; 
For me as for the rest of men 

The die for once and all is cast." 

(49) 



Estelle 

To-morrow woke from out of sleep 

And cast her night-robes from her breast, 
And from the hill-tops tried to peep 

On that sweet vale's unbroken rest ; 
But soon the birds with silver throat 

Bade welcome to her coming feet, 
And Nature added note to note 

Until the chorus was complete ; 
The sheep stirred on the hill-tops green, 

The cattle browsed beside the stream, 
The milk-maid moved the cows between, 

The farm-hand harnessed up his team. 
The sun arose in austere pride, 

And beamed upon the wakened world ; 
By every streamlet's laughing side 

Peace's white-winged banner was unfurled ; 
The dew-drop on the clover-leaf 

Like some pure maiden felt his breath. 

His beamy joy but brought her grief, 

His kiss was but the kiss of death. 
(50) 



Estelle 

The artist found himself e'er noon 

Down at the widow's modest home ; 
Ah ! who can stay in-doors when June 

With witching smiles suggests a roam. 
They made their way as long before 

(Old habit is old habit still) 
From out the parlor to the door, 

Then up the farm-road to the hill. 
He had already told her of 

The rich fulfillment of his dreams, 
But now he seemed somehow to love 

To dwell upon such pleasant themes ; 
He spoke of how he hoped his health 

Would soon allow him to return 
And with new fame get greater wealth 

Than he had yet essayed to earn ; 
He spoke of how his city home 

Was hung with pictures — all his own- 
Of how his friends should often come 

And spend the evenings there alone. 
(51) 



Estelle 

Now, as they wandered up the hill, 

They reached a spot where great trees rise, 
The breeze grew fresh and fresher still. 

And bluer grew the deep blue skies. 
Without forethought, Estelle now sat 

('Twas such a charming scene below) 
Right on the ledge, still gazing at 

The harvesters move to and fro ; 
The wheat-field stretched out far and wide, 

The golden grain, like inland seas, 
Now flowed in ebb, now rose in tide, 

Wave chasing wave as breeze chased breeze. 
The bob-white whistled on the rail, 

The harvesters broke into song, 
And now, across the pretty vale 

The wheat-shocks ranged themselves along. 
The artist knew the hour was there — 

The moment of supreme suspense — 
His love he must at once declare 

And yet could find no good pretense. 

(52) 



Estelle 

He had been brave for many things, 

He had been bold at other hours, 
But now his courage lost her wings 

And speech seemed reft of all her powers. 
It may be that he felt his life 

Depended for its weal or woe 
On whether she would be his wife, 

Or, self-suf&cient, give him "no" — 
And "yes," or "no," he could not tell. 

Had he seen less of man and man's. 
He might have guessed it very well 

And trusted to his heart's sweet plans. 
But he had seen a woman smile 

So oft within that world without. 
That he had grown to place a guile 

Where she would never dream a doubt. 
But little things will often give 

Excuse for great wide-sweeping acts. 
And empires often rise and live 

On pretexts that have murdered facts. 

(53) 




Photo bv W. H. Malone. 
"A bunch of wild flowers often can 



Decide the destiny of man. 



( Page 54 ) 



Estelle 

EKs eye fell on the violets blue, 

The honeysuckle's breath was sweet, 
And buttercups just yonder grew 

Where field and neighb'ring forest meet. 
A bunch of wild flowers often can. 

When youth in joy is leagued with youth, 
Decide the destiny of man — 

Between the lines you read the truth, 
Or should ; for up the hill they went 

With strange forebodings on their part, 
And down they came, and sweet Content 

Was coyly nestling in each heart. 



A WELL-BELOVED and loving home 
-'*' Is God's own picture of the blest - 
A spot to which, where'er we roam. 

We all may turn and find sweet rest. 
If, busy at his studio. 

The artist worked the livelong day, 

(54) 



Estelle 

He knew the shades of night would throw 

The light of home about his way. 
A man's love wavers to and fro, 

Yet settles down at last in strength ; 
A woman's love, as women go. 

Is love unto love's fullest length; 
And he that has it, has what he 

Should value as his very soul — 
A buoy that upon life's sea 

Is strongest when the tempests roll ; 
But, oh ! when woman's love is God's, 

And sweetened by that higher good, 
Its influence reaches many rods. 

And consecrates a neighborhood ; 
She is a city on a hill — 

A light that never can be hid. 
Her husband feels her gentle will. 

The child will love, should she forbid. 
And Estelle sits at eventide 

With ease and plenty all about, 

(55) 



Estelle 

And, in a little crib beside, 

A baby-foot kicks in and out. 
And now she bends, and with her hand 

Plays with its little 'broidered gown 
Or gives a kiss or ties a band 

Or smoothes its golden ringlets down. 
It cooes and laughs and lifts its fist. 

And kicks its little toes in air, 
And now — what mother can resist? 

She bounds with baby down the stair 
And open throws the door, and then — 

A kiss for her, and baby, too, 
Behold- the happiest now of men. 

They enter, and are gone from view. 

L'ENVOY. 
0, men that work and men that bear ! 

What gives you grace to work and wait? 
The morning kiss upon the stair, 
The evening welcome at the gate. 
(56) 






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